Category Archives: Writing

This will probably be hard to explain due to a lack of exact dates and keeping things anonymous but I’ll try.

When I was young I really wanted to be a writer. I got internships in that both summers and then in my last semester I had a really big internship where I spent a semester in a big city working as an intern for a big organization. Honestly, I was basically a coffee fetcher, but it was fun and I fetched coffee for some big names.

After college, I returend to Podunk and got a small writing job locally. There was a part of me that wanted to go back to the back city and pursue a life there as a writer. It didn’t seem far fetched. As a young person in my early 20s, I’d already gotten a lot of experience. The rents wanted me to pursue something more practical and while I don’t want to throw them under the bus for doing what parents do and I realize it was up to me follow through with what I wanted, I ultimately chose the practical.

Do I blame them? A bit. Do I blame myself the most? Of course. There comes a time in adult life where you have to realize your parents don’t know everything and you will have to defy and disappoint them. Don’t worry though because either way it will work out great for them. If you defy them and do what you want and it fails, they can say I told you so forever. If you defy them and do what you want and it succeeds, they’ll say they were behind you all along and it was their idea. Also, fun fact, if you obey them and do what they want and it fails, they’ll say well you should have been your own man and what do they know.

Anyway, I blame myself entirely. It is a week man who blames others for their failings.

I told myself I’d do the practical for a while and then after I’ve made some money I’ll do what I actually want. (Kids, FYI this doesn’t happen. Don’t buy that shit if someone tells you it does.)

Long story short, the practical thing didn’t work out. At that point I thought maybe I should go back to my true love of writing.

But I was a wuss. So I did another practical thing. This practical thing actually worked out.

I do feel like I cheated myself though. The writing world had accepted me early and I ended up worrying that I’d end up 30 and failed because I wasn’t being paid much at 20. Now I realize that yeah, that just happens. You have to pay your dues but good for you, your foot is in the door. Your feet are on the first rung of the ladder, so keep climbing.

At this point now, I’m 40. I’m self sufficient. I suffered a lot though and to be honest, a lack of stability made relationships difficult. I had to come to grips this year with the fact that it’s too late to have children. Technically, I can have them forever but all the women in my age bracket are closed down for baby business.

Could I adopt a little Chinese kid? Sure. Do I fear they’ll send me a faulty one on purpose and refuse to take it back? All the big ticket purchases I’ve made in recent years where I open the box only to find that the item is missing a part such that someone at the factory was asleep at the switch tells me yes. (Was this meant as a joke? Partially.)

There’s nothing I can do about it now, but the regret is palpable. I had my foot in the door in what I wanted at an early age. Then I talked myself out of it. Then when that failed I was free to go back to what I wanted but I chickened out again. Ergo, had I just stuck like ten straight years in what I wanted, I probably would have gotten to be where I wanted.

Although sometimes now I think maybe it worked out because I guess I’ll never know for sure writing would have worked out.

I guess we never know how things work until we do them. When they don’t work, we are certain the opposite course would have been a success.

Question – How do I cope with this regret?

My answer – Keep writing self published books and hope one of them hits.

Thus, pulled out of my butt completely at random, here are 101 things that you could write about on your 3.5 blogs:

#1 – Cats. Always adorable. Meow meow.

#2 – Bunnies. You know if they had smaller ears, they’d just be fat rats. People only like them for their enormous ears.

#3 – Chocolate. Mmm mmm, gotta love me some chocolate, girlfriend.

#4 – All your personal problems. Go ahead. Share them on the Internet. What could possibly go wrong? (My lawyer advises that no one should do this as a lot could go wrong).

#5 – Farts. Do you know everyone farts? The Queen of England farts. Beauty queens fart. Debutantes fart. Santa Claus farts. No one in the history of the world had not ever farted at least once. Forgive me for the sacrilege, but even Jesus farted. I can only assume that he turned his farts into bread to feed poor lepers.

#6 – Golf. Whack a ball. Walk. Whack it again.

#7 – The fact that old people have sex. How old do you think the oldest people to have sex were? Do you think a hundred year old ever had sex? Do you think two, one hundred year olds are bumping genitals as we speak? Come on. It’s a big world and history is long. Two one hundred year olds must have gotten together and pounded one out at least one time between caveman times and today. It’s not only possible it’s virtually impossible that it hasn’t happened at least once.

#8 – Dogs. Messier than cats. Nicer than cats.

#9 – Your kids. Only don’t be dishonest. Be honest and tell us they are ugly and they will never go anywhere. (My lawyer says don’t listen to me and don’t talk about your kids on the Internet, even if it is to be honest and tell everyone how smart they are unlike all those parents who put 10,000 photos and stories on Facebook every time one of their spawns burp).

#10 – Art. Who is your favorite painter? Do you think Jackson Pollack laughed his way to the bank every time some dummy bought one of his canvases that he just flicked his paint brush all over?

#11 – Cows. Moo.

#12 – Ducks. Quack quack.

#14 – What’s your favorite sandwich?

#15 – Favorite pizza topping?

#16 – Favorite movie

#17 – Favorite taco filling?

#18 – Favorite comic book?

#19 – Have you ever farted so loud that it scared you?

#20 – Karate. Do you know it? If you don’t, why not? Do you think someone is going to karate chop muggers for you?

#21 – Root beer tastes better than real beer. Discuss.

#22 – What is an alternative version of you doing in an alternate universe right now?

#23 – Your favorite type of pie.

#24 – Favorite song.

#25 – Why are zombies so stupid?

#26 – Do chimpanzees really like bananas or is that a vicious chimp stereotype?

#27 – Favorite car.

#28 – Worst movie you have ever seen.

#29 – Worst pickup line you ever heard.

#30 – Worst pickup line used on you.

#31 – A pickup line that worked on you.

#32 – Do aliens exist? (Spoiler alert: Yes!)

#33 – Do you ever wonder what the world will be like in three hundred years?

Back from my nice vacation, time to go back to my regular, hum drum life as the Assistant to the Assistant of the Vice President of Corporate Assistance at Beige Corp, the World’s Premiere Producer of Beige Products and Accessories, feeling a little down in the dumps, i.e. realizing it is unlikely I’ll ever visit a big city like NYC ever again except as a tourist…i.e. I’ll never be there to sign on with a publishing agent or to close a book deal or to go to a book signing of my book or something.

Then I saw this:

See that visitor counter?

30,005 visitors?

Or could that number be considered…”30,005 visitors?”

On a numerical scale, seems in keeping with “3.5 readers.”

I could have clicked on this any time. I clicked on it exactly when it said 30,005.

Is it a sign?

I honestly don’t know.

When I was young, I could have chosen the risky path of going balls out toward a writing career or the safe, hum drum path.

I chose to play it safe but in retrospect, I wish I’d chosen risky.

It was so easy to play it safe when I was young. “Plenty of time left. Just be safe a few more years and then you’ll be able to be risky.”

Sigh. Now I’m too old to be risky. The world wouldn’t even let me be risky if I wanted to. Risky opportunities are only passed out to the young.

I get my hopes up too much I guess. My brain and my body keep quoting Eminem, telling me to learn to live “down here” but my heart keeps crying out, “No, live up here!”

I don’t know. These books take time. I suppose I’m too down in the dumps to be all like, “this means I’m going to make it as a writer!” but at any rate, it was neat to see 30,005 readers.

That’s in almost 3 years. You might say 30,005 readers in 2.5 years.

I really need 30,005 readers a day.

Also, I have a theory that the 30,005 visitors are just my 3.5 readers clicking on the site 30,005 times.

I’m sorry to be such a bummer, 3.5 readers.

If you like what you see here, keep reading and keep trying to become more than 3.5 readers.

If writing was your one and only job, you get up, write all day, then stop at the end of the day (say you were putting in an 8 hour day) – how many books do you think you could get out a year?

I just feel like I’m bouncing off of a wall. I’d really like this to be my career but it takes so long. Here I am, almost another year down and still no published book.

I work. I come home. I’m tired. My weekends end up filled with all of the life sustaining stuff, it is so slow going.

I’m an overachiever. I’m not happy with the “oh well I just like to write for the sake of writing.”

I’ve heard all kinds of theories about this and I realize it also depends on the substance.

If you’re writing a critically acclaimed prize winner, that’s different than say, a mad cap zombie romp. Both are loved by their fan bases, but both are different.

How many books a year could you put out if it were to become all you do?

I also realize I need to stop starting and stopping.

I finished a first draft of How the West Was Zombed and the felt like an achievement…but I feel like it does need a major rewrite.

Then I wrote the beginning of Undead Man’s Hand and I felt that was tighter – the characters, the timeline, the town, there wasn’t a lot of room for me to wiggle around and make it go off in all kinds of directions like I did in Zombed.

Undead was going to be a part prequel/part sequel to Zombed. Now that I have had a few months to think about it, I think Undead will become the first book and Zombed will be the second.

Then I dabbled in Illiad Rebooted for a few weeks. Have to be honest, I enjoyed it. I laughed a lot. A lot of the sex and language bothered me. I guess at this point I’m still a civilian and the one thing new writers worry about is will writing something off the wall make people think less of me?

If it takes off, great. If like 100 people read it and they’re like wow whoever wrote this must be a weirdo well…at any rate, I’d like to finish it but I’m not sure I want it to be my first novel.

So now I’m on Zomcation which is basically – Zombies+Vacation = Zomcation. A discharged war hero ends up going on a vacation to an amusement park (Wombat World) with his divorcing sister and kids.

Somehow they meet up with an actress who once played a princess but was demoted to donning a wombat mascot costume when she turned 30, and a bumbling Wombat World security guard who fancies himself an action movie cop and gets irate at the most trivial park rule offenses (i.e. gum chewing.)

And then somehow they end up fighting zombies. I’m still working on the details.

The plot is not complicated. It is in modern times so I don’t have to constantly look up how a past character would have acted. I’ve done 31,000 in a couple of weeks so I think I could get it done by the end of the year and then I would love to turn my attention to getting the first two Zombed books out and done.

I must start working on a project from beginning to end though. Draft. Rewrite. Edit. Format. Publish. No more skipping to other ideas till its done.

Its frustrating. I have more ideas than time but I hope I will eventually get to them all.

I wonder and/or worry there might come a day when people don’t read novels like they do today.

I don’t have the stats but I don’t think they even read as much as used to.

So many shows. So many movies. So many streaming services. There’s probably never been a better time to be an actor or a TV writer (I assume competition is still difficult but there are at least more jobs to compete for maybe?)

I’m talking distant future. People will still need to read to get through daily life but I wonder if a time will come, like a hundred years now when people are like why the hell would I read a novel?

Was it the retiree fashions? Absolutely not. I walk around with my pants pulled up to my chin most of the time anyway.

It was you. My 3.5 readers.

You guys probably thought yesterday’s big announcement was an April Fool’s Day prank.

Had I wanted to make an April Fools Day joke I would have just announced that I’m pregnant, or gay, or gay and pregnant like every other mouth breathing nincompoop on my Facebook feed.

Nope. I was for real. I was calling it quits and taking myself out of the blogging game. It’s becoming too much of a rat race. All wheel and no cheese.

Plus, there’s a guy with a new blog in which he claims to be the caretaker of a magic musical CD carrying case, who fights vampires and chupacabras, and is best friends with a troll. Did I mention he is trying to become a writer in order to stave off an invasion from underground mole people?

Who can compete with that shit? Derivative much?

But my hits yesterday were much higher than usual. 104 visitors to be exact. While I come close often, I rarely break the 100 barrier so color me excited.

Write your heart out on a zombie cowboy novel? People shrug their shoulders. Whip out a few top ten lists about wacky girlfriends and people set their mouses (mice?) on fire with the clicketty clicks.

Fear not. The Zombie Western shall continue. But you’ve now also encouraged me to write more wacky girlfriend top ten lists so tell me, what else are you dudes worried that your girlfriend might be?

Is she:

A pirate

An alien

A ninja

Mother of God. Your girlfriend could be a pirate alien ninja.

Ladies, get in the act. Your boyfriend could also something awful…more so than he obviously is now.

So, I take it the general consensus is the idea for a killer dummy didn’t really wow anyone?

Ehh…I’m still working on How the West Was Zombed. I’ve been pretty bogged down though lately but hopefully have new chapter soon.

I’m not going to fall into that trap of starting new novel halfway through another novel anymore. That’s like leaving your wife for a supermodel. Sure, she turns heads and looks great at parties, but once you skim the surface she’s kind of dumb and won’t make you a sandwich.

Not that your wife did either but she at least cared enough to suggest you go to McDonalds or something if you looked hungry.

I think the Killer Dummy novel will quite possibly be my next novel though. I know what I posted was kind of primitive but after thinking about it, I think I will switch to first person and it will basically read as a confession/tell-all book from “Kit” himself, after having been caught, explaining to a shocked public how this beloved comedian/actor was in secret an evil serial killer who talked to his dummy.

I’m debating just how evil “Mr. Kaboodle” will be. Part of me thinks he will egg Kit on. Then another idea is that he tries to talk Kit out of his evil ways but, being a loyal pal, serves as consigliere, advising Kit how to cover up his crimes once he’s done them.

On a larger scale, it will give me the chance to lampoon Hollywood, how movies are made, and the whole idea of celebrity worship.

But fear not. Zombed is still underway. One thing I’ve had to learn is to not rush things. None of this is going to happen overnight. I want quality but I also want to not kill myself either so if it takes longer, then it takes longer.

If that means just one book a year then so be it I guess.

Also, it is weird I’m gravitating towards horror with my ideas lately. It is hard for me as I don’t really like the idea of anyone dying.

Well ok, no one does, but when a writer bumps off a character it is like that writer is actually doing the bumping off. I don’t want to bump off my fictional characters.

NOTE: Ummm…yeah. So this is where it starts to get pretty awful and I started to have second thoughts.

“Kaboodle” starts talking on his own for the first time. You’ll notice in previous chapters, he never spoke unless Kit was there.

Kaboodle does move around on his own here. But I’d chaulk that up to maybe he’s a possessed doll and really can move on his own or maybe Kit’s so crazy he’s just imagining the whole thing.

I don’t like the whole violence against women thing…and that he’s the main character but he’s doing horrible things.

I haven’t written what happens next but in my mind:

Lindsey, we find out is an aspiring actress. She asks Kit if he’d talk to Luther about taking her on as a client. Kit snaps, thinking Lindsey was just using him and well…does as Kaboodle suggests.

And then what’s basically in my mind for the rest of the book:

Kaboodle helps Kit have a “come to Jesus” moment where he needs to realize he’s got to get off of all the various substances he’s on and “quit murdering cold turkey.” He’s about to become a big star now and it’s too much too lose.

Kit blames Kaboodle for suggesting the murder in the first place. Kaboodle retorts that he’s just a dummy and Kit should be his own man and shouldn’t do things just because a dummy tells him to.

Kit becomes a super mega movie star. Kaboodle is pissed he’s left out of the film business. Kit promises when he has enough star power that he’ll demand a Kit N Kaboodle movie be made, thus satiating Kaboodle’s anger for now.

Ultra mega star Diana Fairbanks is very odd in her personal life and proposes a fake, arranged relationship with Kit to keep the tabloids off her back.

Luther advises against this, telling Kit that a superstar like Diana will never let someone she’s with become more famous than she is and will sabotage Kit’s career.

She does.

Kit ends up a loser.

There’s a private detective hired by Lindsey’s family who is hot Kit’s trail throughout the book, putting the pieces together that Kit murdered Lindsey and his previous girlfriends.

There’s an ongoing plot that Kit might like to get with his old friend Molly and put his terrible secrets behind him.

I forsee some Mr. and Mrs. Smith type showdown in which Kit and Diana engage in a massive mansion destroying duel to the finish. (Because she knows karate or whatever)

I can’t allow Kit to have a happy ending because he’s a horrible person. I’m not sure what the ending will be but he needs to be punished somehow.

In the end it is revealed if Kaboodle is really alive or if he’s just a figment of Kit’s imagination.

So that’s all I’ve written. Like I said, this chapter is where it gets dicey and makes me worried.

This might be one of those novels where I need to get several “winners” under my belt and then this could be the experimental one where it’s either considered good or a dud and people forgive me for a dud.

For the record, I don’t approve of any of the evil activities discussed below.

“WHO DOES THAT BITCH THINK SHE IS?”

Kaboodle was irate.

“Oh don’t start that shit,” Kit said.

“I didn’t start anything,” Caboodle said. “She did! Who is she, the Queen of England or something? That I’m not worthy to be in her royal majesty’s presence?!”

“She doesn’t want a third wheel while we…you know.”

“There’s a fucking zombie in that room but I have to be put away?” Caboodle squeaked. “The nerve of that bitch. I hate her!”

“Stop!”

In a spare room, Kaboodle sat on the edge of a baby grand piano while Kit fumbled through the keys on his key chain until he finally found one that unlocked his “special closet.”

“Cut her damn head off already and be done with it!”

“I said, ‘stop.’”

“You know you’re going to…”

“I’m not listening to this,” Kit said.

“You damn well better listen to this because I will not be treated like garbage, Kit!”

“No one’s treating you like garbage,” Kit replied as he unlocked the closet. It was a big walk-in. Kit retrieved a Caboodle’s trunk, laid it out on the piano bench and clacked the lid open.

“Sir, might I refer you to the case of Broes vs. Hoes,” Caboodle said. “In which it was distinctly ruled that bros must always come before hoes?”

“I’ll counter that argument with the legal precedent that one bro will never cock block another bro,” Kit said. “Get in the box.”
“Why’d you tell her you love her?” Caboodle asked.

“Because I do.”

“Bullshit!”

“What do you know about it?” Kit asked.

“Love is a bullshit feeling,” Caboodle said. “It’s like a heart palpitation, or a stomach pain or bad gas. People have all this physical, chemical reactions and they assign various so-called ‘emotions’ to them. Sadness. Happiness. Love. It’s all one hundred percent grade A bullshit. You’re all just a bunch of stupid meat bags who’ve tricked yourselves into thinking your thoughts and feelings actually matter.”

“OK,” Kit said. “I’m cutting you off from TV. You’ve been watching too much True Detective. Get in the trunk.”

“You’re going to throw me in there without a book?” Caboodle asked.

“Sorry,” Kit said as he walked into the closet. A moment later, he returned with a flashlight, two books, and a small, felt box.

Kaboodle hopped off the piano and let out an “oomph!” as he hit the ground. He stood up and walked into the closet. Kit followed.

“You know I don’t like it when you come in here.”

“Well I don’t know how else to talk any sense into your dumb ass,” Caboodle said.

The diminutive dummy rolled open the bottom drawer, climbed in and rummaged around for awhile, the tops of his feet kicking around in the air. He came out with a photograph in his hand.

Kit sat on the floor. Caboodle handed over the picture. It showed Kit as a chubby, horn rimmed spectacled teenager, far from the good looking specimen he’d become, but not unlike Caboodle’s current appearance.

“Do you have any idea how much work we did to separate you from this guy?” Caboodle asked.

“I know,” Kit said.

“I became the butt of all the jokes so you wouldn’t have to be anymore,” Caboodle said.

“I know,” Kit repeated.

“And what do I get to show for it?” Caboodle asked. “Shoved in a trunk to make some cheap slut happy.”

“Always ‘borrowing’ money from you, wasn’t she?” Caboodle asked. “Promised to pay you back but left you flat broke. Shit, you were about to hit Skid Row until Luther discovered you.”

“I know,” Kit said.

“Howsabout Irina?” Caboodle asked.

“Do we really need to rehash everything?” Kit asked.

“Apparently we do because you never learn, jerkface,” Caboodle said. “You were sure it was true love with that one until you figured out all she wanted out of you was a green card.”

“I’ve made mistakes,” Kit said. “I’m not perfect.”

“I’ll say,” Caboodle said. “And you know what else I always say.”

“Yup.”

“Say it.”

“No.”

“SAY IT!”

Kit rolled his eyes and mumbled under his breath… “There’s no such thing as free pussy.”

“Louder!” the dummy said.

“There’s no such thing as free pussy,” Kit said.

“Correctamundo!” Kaboodle cried. “There is no such thing as free pussy! Every broad is working some kind of an angle and your little redheaded cumquat out there is no different.”

“She is.”

“Isn’t.”

“IS!”

“She has always been there for me and she’s never asked me for a damn thing,” Kit said.

“Give her time,” Caboodle said. “It’s only been six months. Wait a little before you pop the question. I guarantee you she’ll reveal her true colors.”

“She’s the love of my life,” Kit said.

Kaboodle grabbed his sides and doubled over with laughter.

“Oh God,” Caboodle said. “Thanks buddy. Thanks. I needed that.”

“Whatever,” Kit said as he stood up. “Get used to her because she isn’t going anywhere.”
“Whatever you say,” Caboodle said. “Just a word of advice. I know you’ve got a sentimental attachment to Mr. Slashy but if you ask me, you should just choke the bitch out.”

“Goddamn you,” Kit said as he grabbed Caboodle by the leg and dragged him out of the closet, allowing the little guy’s head to scrape across the rug.

“I mean, sure Mr. Slashy makes for a dramatic effect but he leaves way too much forensic evidence. Some CSI tech is sure to come in here with a black light one of these days and find it all!”

“STOP IT!” Kit said as he stuffed Caboodle into the trunk.

“Just wrap your hands around her neck and give her a good, clean choke. You’re a big, strong guy. She’s got a little neck. You can just snap it in half, no muss, no fuss, no big clean up job afterwards.”

Kit’s eyes grew wide as he wrapped his hands around Caboodle’s neck.

“Yeah, baby!” Kaboodle shouted. “Just like that!”

“Shut the fuck up!” Kit said. “Not another word out of you!”

The comedian slammed the lid shut, clacked down the latches and carried the trunk to the special closet. Caboodle broke out in a rousing jailhouse spiritual.

“Nobody knows…the trouble I seen! Nobody knows….my sorrow!”

“This time it’ll be different,” Kit said. “You’ll see!”

Kit walked out of the closet, slammed the door and locked it. He shoved his key ring into his pocket, composed himself, and made his way out of the spare room.

As he switched off the light, he could hear Caboodle shout, “You’ll be sorry!”

Over the years, Kit had turned his loft into a veritable museum of geekery. Much like a suit of armor one might find in an old castle, a Star Wars storm trooper outfit stood at attention on a pedestal in the right hand corner of the living room. In the far left corner, there was a scowling zombie statute that had once been a prop from the horror flick, Zombageddon. A full size TARDIS phone booth that had actually been used in the Dr. Who series was in the back of the room, next to a display case filled with limited edition action figures still in the original packaging. Characters from Star Wars, Star Trek, GI Joe, Transformers, Battlestar Galactica, and Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles were just a few of the selections on display. He had even more, but figures he deemed too rare or expensive he kept in a special closet.

Hanging over the fire place? A framed poster of John Travolta and Samuel L. Jackson from Pulp Fiction, their pistol packing hands extended towards their impending victims. It was signed by the actors themselves, as well as the classic film’s legendary director, Quentin Tarantino. On the mantle, there were over a hundred jiggly bobble head dolls. The characters more or less ran the same gamut of his action figure collection.

Various lightsabers sat on a rack as if they were samurai swords and a tauntaun’s head was mounted on Kit’s wall as if it were a big game hunter’s prize. As for vintage arcade games, there were too many too mention. Pac Man, Galaga, Dig Dug, Frogger, Centipede, Space Invaders…he had them all.

Clad in a terrycloth bathrobe emblazoned with Batman’s logo on the back, Kit marched into the room holding a breakfast tray. Scrambled eggs, French toast, hash browns, orange juice and coffee…he’d gone all out.

“My my, quite the gourmet chef!” Lindsey said.

“Bon appetit, mon cheri,” Kit said as he took a spot on the couch next to his lady love. “What are we watching?”

“You!”

“What?” Kit asked as he chomped into a piece of toast.

“Look!” Lindsey said as she pointed to the TV, where an anchorman was babbling away.

“And in lighter news, comedian Kit Crawford, best known for his ventriloquism act ‘Kit N’ Caboodle….”

Footage of Friday night’s show ran as the anchorman continued.

“…wowed the world as he made his dummy sing a rap song while being water boarded. Vick Tanner, Executive Producer for Friday Night Follies, said the stunt brought the show its highest ratings ever in its twenty-five year history.”

“You’re literally on every channel,” Lindsey said as she clicked the remote. The next channel? Kit. The channel after that? Kit. The next one? Kit again. Lindsey stopped when she reached an episode of Entertainment Beat in progress.

“Wowza! A star is born!” announced the beautiful host, Julie Broderick. “Kit Crawford and his pal Caboodle have made a number of cameos on various television shows, most recently on this episode of Dumb Dad…”

Dumb Dad was the most popular sitcom on television. It followed the exploits of Pete Gentry, the world’s dumbest dad. Kit N’ Caboodle guest starred as a pair of psychiatrists.

Pete laid down on a black leather sofa and poured his heart out as Kit N’ Caboodle listened.

“I’m so depressed, doctor…”

“Doctors,” Caboodle said, leaning into the “s.”

“Excuse me?” Pete asked.

“There’s two doctors in the room,” Caboodle said. “I did complete seven years of medical school, I’ll have you know.”

“Really?” Pete asked, surprised.

“Yeah, the University of Barbados has pretty lax standards,” Caboodle replied. “They’ll let any dummy in.”

Cue canned laugh track.

“OK,” Pete corrected himself. “I’m so depressed, doctors…”

“Why is that, Peter?” Kit asked as he pretended to scrawl notes on a legal pad.

“I’m a constant disappointment to my wife and children,” Pete said. “Every week I fail them in a kooky, off the wall manner. Like just last week, my daughter Becky baked a chocolate cake and I ate a slice only I didn’t know it was for the school bake sale.”

“Absolutely riveting,” Caboodle said.

“So I got the recipe and tried to bake a replacement cake only I blew up my wife’s stove…”

“Uh huh,” Kaboodle said.

“Soo then I…I’m sorry, is the dummy going to keep talking?”

“No, you can stick a sock in it whenever you want,” Caboodle said.

Cue Caboodle’s head spin, followed by his catchphrase, “Wowza!” topped off with more canned laughter.

Cut to Julie’s voice over the Friday Night Follies opener. “But Hollywood insiders are all a-twitter over this sketch, saying it’s sure to propel Crawford to super stardom.”

Cut to Luther walking to his car.

“Our cameras caught up with Crawford’s agent, Luther Beaumont.”

“Aww hell I always knew that boy had a light in him and it was finally his turn to shine,” Luther said. “Get used to his face because you’re going to be seeing it all over the place, America.”

The couple locked lips. Kit eased himself back on the couch, pulling Lindsey on top of him. He stopped kissing for a moment and just studied his girlfriend’s perfect, porcelain skin. Her red hair was pulled up in a bun and she was wearing one of Kit’s shirts as a night shirt, but it didn’t matter. To Kit, she’d look good in anything.

“What?” Lindsey asked.

“You’re so beautiful,” Kit answered.

“Shut up!” Lindsey said playfully as she moved in to nibble on Kit’s earlobe.

Diana Fairbanks was universally considered to be the most breathtakingly hot actress in the entire world, capable of making men erect with a single glance.

Kit sprang to his feet, practically knocking Lindsey off the couch. “Get the fuck out!”

Luther laughed. “I will get the fuck in, bitch!”

The comedian was full of questions. “How? What? What’s this about?”

“Her people loved your shit,” Luther explained. “She wants you as her love interest in her next rom-com.”

“What’s it’s about?”

“Hell if I know,” Luther replied. “Star crossed lovers find each other against the odds and fuck. What’s it matter? My office. Get there at ten a.m. sharp and don’t be a second late or I’ll hunt you down and beat your ass with a two by four. Got it?”

“I got it. Jesus, Luther. Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. Anything for my star playa.”

Kit sat back, stunned and speechless.

“Good news?” Lindsey asked.

“You could say that,” Kit said. “Do you think me being in a movie with Diana Fairbanks is good news?”